The Worst Joke
by sheepishwolfy
Summary: "It's a joke that basically writes itself," he said, spreading his hands in exaggerated nonchalance. "The Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall and the Herald of Andraste fall off a cliff."


On the first day, those left behind had been so occupied by the demons still spilling out of the courtyard rift that there was no time to worry. Any hint that something had gone wrong had to be filtered through the sea of blood and magic, until all information was rendered unrecognizable and useless.

The second day, when the flow of horrors had slowed to barely a trickle and the remaining Inquisition had a chance to breathe, they took stock. Heavy casualties, especially among the Wardens, made it difficult to decipher what exactly had happened.

The stories gathered from the handful of still-living witnesses ranged from the plausible to the wildly improbable:

 _The dragon ate them._

 _No, they fell off the bridge, into the dragon's mouth._

 _No, they got sucked into a rift._

 _No, first the dragon ate Clarel, then it dragged them off the bridge, then a rift opened, and they fell into the Fade._

Surprisingly, once Cullen and Leliana managed to piece it together, it was that last, most fanciful tale that proved true. They had chased Erimond across Adamant Fortress' battlements until the maybe-Archdemon appeared, swallowed the Warden-Commander, and collapsed the bridge beneath their feet. Whether intentionally or on pure panic, the Inquisitor opened a rift to catch them.

On that second day, Varric found little cause for concern. This kind of deeply impossible, incredibly unfortunate series of events thing happened to Hawke _all the time_ , and she always managed, one way or another, to live through it. In Varric's limited experience, the Inquisitor had a very similar habit of lucking (unlucking?) into the worst possible situations, but coming out the other side hardly the worse for wear.

"It's a joke that basically writes itself," he said, spreading his hands in exaggerated nonchalance. " _The Hero of Ferelden, the Champion of Kirkwall and the Herald of Andraste fall off a cliff_."

Sera giggled, the Iron Bull laughed with the full force of his barrel chest, Vivienne shook her head and walked away. Cullen, ashen-faced with worry, failed to see the humor in it.

By the third day, when the courtyard rift pulsed and spat forth a pride demon, when the joke still had no punchline, Varric began to agree with the Commander. This shit wasn't funny anymore.

A single pride demon proved simple enough to dispatch, with the number of Wardens still standing and the remaining members of the Inquisition's inner circle nearby. They stood by, ready for more, waiting for the onslaught to begin again. Surely where there was one demon there were a thousand more, ready to surge through the tear in the Veil and overwhelm the fortress again.

The rift throbbed and hummed, casting the yard in sickly green light. Thin arcs of verdant lightning struck forth at random intervals, but nothing came through. No demon, no enemy.

No friend, either.

Cullen paced like a caged bear, stalking around the rift as if he could close it with the sheer force of his gaze. It was evident in the dark hollows of his eyes, the thin line of his mouth, that he hadn't slept since the battle began. Sera sat on a pile of rubble, looking supremely bored, balancing an arrow on one finger. Across the yard, Blackwall stood stalwart with the other wardens, vigilant in this false peace.

Seated on a half-ruined bench, Bianca across his lap, fingers beating a rhythmless tattoo against her stock, Varric frowned prodigiously at the rift. A mage- it may have been Dorian but he didn't get a good enough look at the mustache- attempted to move the crossbow so they could heal the shallow gash on his chest, but Varric waved them away without so much as a glance. The familiar weight of Bianca beneath his hands kept him grounded, present. As long as she was at the ready, as long as his wounds were unhealed, the battle wasn't over. Setting her aside now felt too much like giving up.

And he would _not_ give up on Hawke. She would, at any minute, stride through that rift and crack a shitty joke and bitch about "Fade smell." Neither of them would admit to feeling anything remotely resembling doubt or fear, and together they proceed to get absolutely shit-housed on whatever they could find in the fortress' wine cellar.

Any minute now.

That minute became an hour, then two. Three hours on, as the sky began to darken overhead and it looked to be another interminable night of waiting, the then seam of the rift burst open.

The commander surged to action, longsword appearing in his hand. " _To arms_!" he snarled, falling into a ready stance as green fire spilled across the ground, licking at his boots. The courtyard surged to life, a cacophony of rallying cries and drawn weapons.

A burst of light, and the first creature fell from the rift. Varric was on his feet before the thing hit the ground, muscle memory cocking and aiming Bianca with blinding speed. He sighted down the crossbow, finger tight on her trigger, leading the creature as it scrambled away from the rift with little of the usual demonic fluidity as missiles both magic and mundane rained around it...

"Stop!" he cried, hurling himself between a slightly singed Cole and the soldiers bearing down on him. An arrow whistled past his ear. "It's them! They're coming through!"

Cullen took up the cry, stilling the bloodthirst. Cole did not slow until he reached the far wall, where he huddled with his knees drawn to his chest, shivering, eyes wild.

Solas came through next, followed closely by Cassandra. They looked as shaken as Cole as they wheeled around to watch the rift. Moments later Warden-Commander Amell shot forth, collapsing to her hands and knees.

"They were right behind!" she gasped, heaving to her feet. She was barely upright before Cullen was at her side, all fierceness forgotten.

Varric hardly heard the commander's breathless expressions relief. He felt as taught as Bianca's strings, every muscle in his body vibrating in terrified anticipation, unable even to breathe before the rift flared again.

He shut his eyes as soon as it did, fingers closing so tightly around the crossbow that he thought it might snap in half. A blinding flash of green, a crack of thunder, and then nothing. The courtyard went absolutely still.

"Oh you shit, you missed my grand entrance, standing there with your eyes shut."

Varric grinned and shrugged and opened his eyes. He slung Bianca over his shoulder, settling her into her holster. "You know no one can look directly at your grand entrances," he said, as his lungs re-inflated. She was there, alive and whole, just like he knew she would be. Behind her, the Inquisitor was addressing the wardens, but he didn't particularly care. "They'd go..." His eyes were drawn to her waist. "...Blind."

"I really am too impressive for mortal eyes," she said, following his gaze. Hawke touched a hand to the ragged tear in her armor, frowning when her fingers came away red. "Oh. That's probably bad," she said, and pitched forward.

He caught her before she could hit the ground, yelling for a healer as he fell to his knees, pressing one gloved hand to the wound in a vain attempt to keep her insides inside. That she had walked out of the Fade seemed nothing short of a miracle, now, for she had been run through. Blood, Hawke's blood, spilled hot across his legs and through his fingers.

"Fucking thing got me," she groaned.

Amell was crouched at Hawke's other side, ripping off her gloves and shoving Varric's hand away. "Make _damn_ you, Hawke!" she snarled, closing her hands over the wound. Magic thrummed through the air, making the hair on Varric's neck stand on end. "Push _me_ through the rift like a sack of grain?"

"Always have to be the hero, don't you?" Varric said, a half-hearted laugh bubbling through his lips. "Why don't you give someone else a chance, some time?"

She was limp in his arms, eyes closed and jaw slack. Blood stained her lips, dark against too-pale skin.

"Hawke?" he whispered, and then again, more forcefully, " _Hawke_."

With his teeth Varric tore his glove off, laying his bare palm against her jaw, thick fingers brushing over her neck. He could just feel her pulse, weak and stuttering. Her heart, strong and true, that beat with equal fervor for friend or stranger, was failing.

This, he thought desperately, was a heart the world could not afford to lose.

Fuck the world, this was a heart _he_ could not afford to lose.

Slumping back onto her haunches, Amell expelled an angry breath. " _Fuck_ ," she breathed sharply, rubbing the back of her wrist savagely across her forehead and leaving a smear of blood. "I did what I could," she said, shaking her head, angry. With herself or Hawke, it wasn't clear. "The rest is up to her, I can't... I can't keep her alive if she wants so badly to die."

The corners of his eyes burned, but Varric refused to weep until it was over.

"Come on, Hawke," he said, forcing his voice to be steady. He smoothed a hand over her hair, pushing stray strands away from her face. "You don't get to go out like this, after we already won. You go out in battle, or when you're a thousand years old surrounded by grand babies and piles of gold, not like this. This is a shitty ending."

He rocked her, gently, murmuring platitudes and other nonsense, doing what he always did under pressure and running his mouth. Only dimly aware of people moving around them, he caught snatches of conversations.

 _She pushed Lyanna through the rift..._

 _...told us to run and tried to kill a horror demon by herself_...

... _tried to grab her but it got her first..._

"Please," he said finally, begging when nothing else worked and she still lay unmoving. Varric squeezed his eyes shut again. He couldn't watch, and though his voice broke chose instead to keep babbling, as though she would follow the chain of his words back to him. "Hawke, honey, don't do this to me. Not now. I can't do it alone, I don't know what I am without you anymore."

"An asshole with great chest hair, probably."

Eyes snapping open, he found her watching him, smirking as though she hadn't just done her best to die. If she didn't look so weak still, he would have dropped her right on the ground.

"Andraste's burning tits, Hawke," he said, trying to sound exasperated despite the tremor in his hands. "You do this shit on purpose, don't you?"

She shrugged, winced. "Not doing that again, that hurt a lot," she said. Lifting a hand, she stroked a thumb over his cheek, through the trail of his tears, then wrinkled her nose. "Sorry, got blood on your-"

The rest of the sentence was muffled as he kissed her, fingers tangling in her hair. Her noise of surprise turned quickly to one of satisfaction.

"Don't you ever fucking do that again," he said, smiling against her lips.

Across the yard, Cassandra threw her gloves on the ground and made a noise somewhere between disgust and joy. " _I knew it_!"


End file.
